


hold me tight (or not at all)

by icoulddothisallday



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentleness, M/M, Panic Attacks, graphic description of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 13:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17305616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icoulddothisallday/pseuds/icoulddothisallday
Summary: Danny has panic attacks. Steve finds out.





	hold me tight (or not at all)

Steve lets himself into Danny’s apartment, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door. He pauses and listens. Hearing movement at the back of the apartment, Steve toes off his shoes — Danny is a stickler about that — and makes his way back to Danny’s bedroom. 

Danny’s seemed off for a couple days, and after they had wrapped the case earlier he’d taken off without saying a word to anyone. Steve had wanted to go after him right away, but there’d been a couple loose ends to tie up before he could leave. 

As he gets closer to Danny’s bedroom, he starts to hear the distinct sounds of Danny pacing and muttering. 

“Danno?” Steve calls, letting Danny know he’s there. All sounds and movements stop suddenly. The worry that’s been growing in his stomach coalesces into a solid pit. 

“Go away!” Danny shouts and there’s an edge to his voice that Steve has never heard before. Or. No, he has. When they were lodged under that goddamn parking garage and Danny was desperately fighting his claustrophobia. 

And, well, with that comparison drawn there’s no way Steve is going anywhere. He opens the bedroom door. 

Danny’s standing in the middle of the room, wild eyed and trembling. His hair is a mess and his shirt is half open, like he’d hastily pulled the buttons apart. There’s visible sweat on his forehead and upper lip. The room is worse for wear too, drawers standing open, blankets tugged off the bed, laundry bin overturned. An empty prescription bottle is overturned on top of the the dresser, though as far as Steve knows, Danny doesn’t take any medications except the occasional ibuprofen for his knee. 

Danny’s still wearing his shoes. 

Steve clocks all of this quickly. He tries to keep his face calm, but his mind is racing, trying to come up with some kind of explanation for this. 

“What happened?” Steve asks. “Is it Grace? Did something happen?”

“No, no,” Danny says, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he says, grabbing a handful of his hair and tugging hard enough it has to hurt. “Damn it, you can’t be here. I need —” Danny turns away and starts to pace again, movements jerky and agitated, nothing like how Danny normally moves. “Can you just leave. Fuck, Steve I need — I need —” Danny cuts himself off again. 

Steve steps a little further into the room, moving slowly. He’s still not quite sure what’s happening and with each passing moment, his own calm is faltering. He needs to figure out what is going on. Keeping his movements measured, he tries to approach Danny. He gets as far as reaching out to put a soothing hand on him, when Danny barks a sharp, “No! Don’t touch me!” 

Danny grabs his own elbows and tucks into himself so tightly it looks like it hurts. Steve can’t stand it. Danny  _ never  _ acts like this and Danny  _ never  _ doesn’t welcome Steve’s touch. If anything, it’s Steve who shies away from Danny’s touch, never the other way around. And Danny is always so goddamn patient even when Steve’s a fidgety restless asshole. But now it’s Danny who looks like he’s got a live wire under his skin and Steve doesn’t even know where to start. He sees Danny’s fingernails start to dig into the meat of his arms and then Danny sinks down, crouching with his head in his hands. He rocks back and forth on his toes before finally collapsing onto his knees and starting to gasp for breath. 

It’s fucking horrifying and heartbreaking to watch. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” Danny’s whispering in between heaving breaths. “Get it the fuck together, Williams, come on.”

The pauses between great gasps of air get longer, Danny’s face gets paler, his fingers dig a little harder into his arms and Steve can’t stand it anymore. He can’t just stand there and watch Danny hurt like this, he just can’t. He crouches down in front of Danny. 

“Hey. Hey, man. Take a deep breath.” 

“I’m trying,” Danny gasps. “Can’t you see I’m —” the words turn into a sob and then another horrible gasp for breath. 

And Steve might not know much, but he can tell now that this is a fucking panic attack. Not like any panic attack Steve’s ever had or seen, but the same goddamn thing nonetheless. He’s not sure what brought it on or why it’s hitting Danny so fucking hard, but recognizing it takes some of the tension out of Steve anyway. 

“Yeah, I can see,” Steve murmures. “You just keep trying, buddy. I’ve got you. We’re here in your apartment, Grace is still at school.”

“I know where I am,” Danny spits. “I’m not having a flashback or —” again Danny has to break off for a series of gasping, shuddering breaths that make his whole body look like it’s drowning. Steve puts his hands on Danny’s shoulders, squeezes lightly, but doesn’t dare touch any more than that. 

“Okay, okay,” Steve says swiftly. Danny’s seen plenty of trauma, so it wouldn’t be ridiculous to think he was flashing back to something. But Steve has to admit that this doesn’t feel like that sort of panic response, the kind of panic that comes from having lived the worst case scenario. This seems like a different beast all together. “Just slow your breaths down. Here,” Steve says, and takes one of Danny’s hands and puts it on Steve’s ribs. “Follow me.”

Steve breathes slow and deep, not taking his eyes off Danny’s pale face. And in fits and starts, achingly slowly, Danny’s breath does ease into something almost normal. The tension in his frame starts to ease, leaving him shivering. He collapses forward suddenly, and Steve has to jump to catch him and not topple over himself, but it’s worth it for the way that Danny’s weight leans into him trustingly. 

“C’mon pal,” Steve says. “Up we get.” He heaves them to their feet. Taking a quick glance around the room, Steve decides a change of scenery is needed and he half carries Danny out to the living room and steadies him as he collapses onto the couch. 

Danny is still shivering slightly, and his eyes and face are blank and empty. In some ways, that’s more terrifying than the whole goddamn attack. With a little nudging, Danny lays down on the couch. Steve gathers up a blanket and lays it over Danny. 

With care, he takes off Danny’s shoes and goes to set them by the door. When he comes back, Danny has closed his eyes. His cheeks are wet with tears. Steve wipes them away carefully. 

“I’m sorry,” Danny whispers, voice hoarse. 

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Steve says, his own voice suddenly rough. 

“Don’t leave, okay?”

Steve swallows, throat tight. “I won’t.”

*

And he doesn’t, even after Danny falls asleep. Steve goes only as far as the kitchen to get a glass of water and some leftover Chinese from the other night. He plants himself in Danny’s armchair and turns the television on low. He only half watches it, mostly keeping an eye on Danny. 

He’s still puzzled about what exactly happened this afternoon, but he knows better than to let his brain run with all the possibilities. He needs to wait til Danny is awake and then he can get some kind of answers to all of his questions. 

Danny doesn’t wake up until well after 9, coming to slowly and getting up in a way that suggests that his whole body aches. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly. 

Danny blinks at him and then a look of horror passes over his face. “Shit.  _ Shit, _ ” he says. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see that.”

“Don’t apologize,” Steve says firmly. He gets up, coming over to the couch and plopping down next to Danny. Danny’s body is stiff again, clearly upset. “I don’t need you to apologize. But I need to know what happened.”

Danny shakes his head sharply, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “It’s nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“It’s fucking stupid,” Danny mutters. 

“Listen,” Steve starts, pasting a grin on his face. “I put up with the fact that you don’t like perfectly good toppings on pizza, I can certainly put up with the occasional panic attack.”

Danny makes a face, looking more like himself than he has all day. “Pineapple is not a perfectly good topping. It is an abomination, as you well know.” His voice is dry and amused and that’s Steve’s Danny. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. 

“You also hate the beach and can’t surf, have ill advised taste in sports teams, and have a temper like a bad-mannered pit bull.”

Danny makes a huffy noise, but doesn’t argue with any of those points. 

Steve lets his hand land on Danny’s leg, squeezes tight. It’s not something he’d normally let himself do and Danny knows it. Too many goddamn years in the Navy, watching every thought. It’s a statement, something Steve doesn’t know how to say in words. 

Danny sighs, sounding resigned. 

“They started when I was a kid,” he says. “Panic disorder, or that’s what the docs said. I just got more and more wound up, inside.” Danny taps his forehead. “It’s like I told you, when we were almost smashed to death. I just always think about the worst case scenario, y’know. It’s always there in the back of my head. It always was.”

Steve winces a little, remembering that conversation. God it hurts to think about how much darkness dwells in Danny’s brain. Steve’s got plenty of dark thoughts, plenty of what ifs, that swirl around his mind. But not like Danny described it, not as a reaction to every little thing. 

“So, yeah. Panic attacks. Sometimes it’s cause of a specific thought or thing that happens, but mostly it’s just my brain freaking out cause it can’t handle its shit.” Derision drips off Danny’s words. 

“Hey,” Steve cuts in, sharp. “No. Don’t talk to yourself that way.”

Danny shakes his head, anger on his face. “It’s not like when you have a panic attack or somethin’,” he mutters. “Real shit happened to you. To your buddies, in the SEALs. This isn’t PTSD. Nothing fucking happened to me. There’s no reason for me to be so goddamned scared all the time. There’s no reason for me to forget how to breathe, to freak out so bad people can’t even fucking touch me —”

Steve hugs him. He doesn’t know how else to stop Danny’s tirade against himself. 

“Shit did happen to you. Plenty of shit has happened to you.”

“But that’s not what caused this. I’ve been this way since I was a kid. Just fucking touched in the head, is all.”

“That’s not fair,” Steve says, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know how to take apart Danny’s self-deprecation the way Danny always does for him. Danny always has the right words when Steve’s ADHD is so bad he can barely fucking function, he always knows what to say when the shit Doris used to say comes pouring back. He knows what to say when a case goes wrong, or when Steve wakes up with nightmares, or when Steve’s being an asshole to everyone in hearing range. 

Steve’s not like that. He doesn’t know how to tell Danny that he’s fucking perfect, that he’s better than any goddamn human Steve’s ever known and it doesn’t matter if he has panic attacks. It wouldn’t matter if he had them every goddamn day. He doesn’t know how to say that having panic attacks is its own kind of shit that happens to you, that trauma doesn’t always come from the outside, that sometimes trauma lives in your fucking soul and was born in your goddamn heart and eats and eats and eats at you. 

“You didn’t fuckin’ ask for it,” Steve says. “And look at everything you’ve done even when that shit was happening.”

“Maybe,” Danny grunts, rubbing the base of his head like it’s aching. Steve lifts his hand and bats Danny’s away, taking over the massage. Danny’s grunt turns into a groan of pleasure. 

Steve lets them sit for a couple minutes, but questions are whirling through his brain, making him shift restlessly in his seat. 

Danny chuffs a laugh and says, “Out with it, Steve. I can tell you’ve got questions. Might as well get them over with.”

“Thank fuck,” Steve sighs and Danny laughs a little harder, which makes Steve grin in response. “How often do you get ‘em?”

“Not that much, anymore,” Danny answers, leaning back into Steve’s hand, quietly reminding him to keep massaging. “There was a while when I was a kid that they were every fucking week. But now it’s just a few times a year.”

Steve nods thoughtfully. “D’you take anything for them?”

“Not every day. I’ve got something I take when I feel one coming on, but honestly it usually only delays it at best. And anyway, I ran out — forgot to fill my prescription.” Danny shrugs, almost dislodging Steve’s hands. Steve thinks back to the overturned prescription bottle, putting it all together. 

Steve chews on his cheek, not sure if he should really ask the next question. 

“Spit it out, Steve. You’ve never been careful with me before, don’t start now.”

Grinning, Steve ducks his head, leaning it on Danny’s back. God, he fucking loves this man. 

“How come you didn’t want me to touch you?” Grounding touch has always worked for Steve, as long as it was from someone he trusts. It had hurt a little, he won’t lie, when Danny had snapped at him not to touch. 

Danny goes silent a minute and Steve makes himself sit still and wait too. 

“When I get panicked like that,” he starts, voice slow and cautious, “It’s like every sense is turned up to a hundred. It feels like — god it feels like all my skin’s been peeled off. Everything is too goddamn much. It’s unbearable. Having someone touch me — having someone be in the same goddamn space as me… it just makes everything more.”

Steve nods, processing that. “So how do I help?”

“Shit, Steve. You don’t have to, s’not your fucking problem.”

“Course I do,” Steve says. “I love you.”

“God,” Danny breathes, voice hitching. “Yeah, I love you too. I just mean — I’m a grown fucking man. I can deal with it on my own.”

“I know you can,” Steve stays, letting his hands start to stroke soothingly over Danny’s back and up to play with his hair, giving up the massage. “I still want to help.”

“I don’t know,” Danny admits. “Maybe just — be wherever I am. And listen to what I ask for, but don’t — don’t ask me any questions. And don’t tell me to fucking breathe.”

Steve winces, remembering that particular error. “You got it.”

Danny nods, then turns towards Steve. “Can we stop talking about this now?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He leans in and kisses Danny. “Just as long as you know you don’t have to hide it from me.”

“I doubt you’ll let me,” Danny says dryly. He ducks back in, kissing intently, clearly done talking about it. 

But Steve’s not going to forget and damn if he’s gonna let Danny keep dealing with this on his own. Steve wonders how long it’s been since someone helped Danny hold it. Too damn long is the answer, no matter how long it’s been. Well he’ll be watching now, he’ll keep an eye out. He’ll figure out how to help Danny. 

He wants Danny to hope. He wants Danny not to jump to the worst conclusion at every little thing. He wants to hold Danny so goddamn close that Steve can be his skin when Danny doesn’t feel like he has any. 

_ I love you _ , he thinks, letting his hands start to undo Danny’s buttons,  _ and you’re not alone.  _

_ fin.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone experiences panic differently, and this is based off my own experiences, so please don't take this as representational.


End file.
